


Secret Little Rendezvous

by femwilde (harryflocka)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Masturbation, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 13:29:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5092517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harryflocka/pseuds/femwilde





	Secret Little Rendezvous

There were three things Harry Styles was absolutely sure of. First, it had been too long since the last time he'd jerked himself off. Second, at the present moment he had absolutely no interest in how pencils were made. And third, if he didn't get his hand on his cock right-this-second he was going to die. He was going to die with a massive hard-on trying to free itself from under his joggers and he would have no one but himself, and the How It's Made narrator, to blame.

It always caught him off guard, that's the thing. He never truly realized just how badly he needed to wank until he found himself staring blankly at the telly, his knee jittery, his hands restless, a ghost of an itch making its way to his fingertips. 

The plush green velvet sofa he was currently lounging on had seen a lot of things, had felt the warmth of a lot of bodies; sometimes one at a time, sometimes so many of them at the same time that there was no telling where this person ended and that other one started. Harry never worried too much about that; about the minutiae of sex. As long as there was a warm mouth attached to him, any part of him, and at least one adoring pair of eyes following his body's every move as if it were a Russian ballet performance, he was content.

Tonight, though, "content" just wasn't going to cut it. Tonight his body called for him and him only. Tonight his velvet couch welcomed him as his one and only lover. _One and only_. His thoughts briefly traveled all the way to his journal, to the self-adoring statement he had written on its cover that was so often mistaken as a love declaration for someone else, for anyone he had been linked to that month.  
But tonight it was all about him.

That doesn't mean he's not gonna make himself work for it, though.

His joggers pooling around his ankles, a puddle of decorum momentarily forgotten. He brings one hand to his already-naked torso, rolls one nipple in between his fingers. His head tilted back, he runs his other hand up his chest, across his throat, brings two fingers into his mouth. He's always had something of an oral fixation, he supposes. He is sure of it now, with the way he is desperately sucking on his fingers, briefly taking them out of his mouth to gently tug at his bottom lip only to suck them back in again, as if he were playing a game of tug-o-war he can never lose.  


His nipples beg him to flinch against the almost painful touch of his fingertips, but he has never been one to shy away from a bit of pain. He moans around his fingers, bites the pads as he arches his body up, not too disappointed not to find a wet mouth wrapping itself around his aching cock. _It's better this way_ , he thinks, _I will make sure it is_. He takes his spit-covered fingers out of his mouth, lets them make their way down his torso, leave a trail of saliva across his stomach before they come to rest in between his laurel leaves. He gently pulls from the light-brown hair leading to his cock, smirks as he feels his breath quicken with anticipation. He quickly reaches for the lube he keeps hidden between the cushions, squeezes a small drop of it onto his palm and trusts his precome to do the rest. He lightly trails his fingers along the length of his shaft, gently thumbs under the head, his cock flushed and already leaking. His other hand abandons his nipples in favor of his hair, buries itself deep within the mass of curls before getting a handful of them, pulling until Harry's throat is exposed and his eyes are clenched shut. He can feel it now; can feel his heart racing, the rapid fall and rise of his chest as he thumbs over his slit once, twice, stroking his cock with one hand and pulling from his hair with the other, desperate whimpers making their way out of his mouth. The head of his dick the same angry shade of pink as his wet lips. He spares a moment to think about how pretty it would look, swatches of his favourite MAC lipstick shades decorating the length of his pretty cock. He briefly opens his eyes to watch himself in the reflection of the television, can see the outline of his body, of his open legs, can follow the movement of his hand as he keeps jerking himself off. He thrusts his hips up, fucks himself into his precome-slathered fist, needy moans escaping his lips one after the other after the other. He feels the familiar white heat pooling somewhere inside of him. His hand pulls from his hair harder almost on its own accord, and it doesn't take much more than a couple of tugs before he's spilling into his fist, drops of come landing on his stomach as his body vibrates with all the _need_ and _want_ and _lust_ that he'd been holding in. 

He blinks sleepily at the ceiling, a slow smile blossoming as he brings his come-covered hand up to his face. He lets his tongue dance across the spaces between his fingers before he takes them one by one into his mouth. He can hear himself making purposely obscene noises as he sucks them clean, likes to imagine that there is someone watching him while he does it, likes to show off for an imaginary audience. For an adoring pair of eyes.

He's always had a bit of an oral fixation, after all.


End file.
